Operation Cancel Christmas would begin as soon as Abby Preston tossed her bags into the trunk of her silver sedan and sped away.
She couldn’t wait to see her tires fling the sun-scorched sands of the Mojave Desert into the spiteful sky as Edwards Air Force Base shriveled in her rearview mirror.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Although an unwilling participant in her Scrooge-like scheme, her best friend and roommate, Nadia Chopra, folded a white T-shirt and placed it on the pile with the rest of Abby’s hastily packed wardrobe.
“I’m sure.” Abby tugged the handle of her suitcase with as much force as she could muster.
Straining against the bulging sweaters, the stubborn lid sprang open.
Determined, Abby leaned all 115 pounds of her petite frame against the bulging exterior, but it barely budged. “A little help?” she grunted.
“Fine. But I still think this is a terrible idea.” Nadia put her exquisite curves to use and sat squarely in the center of the soft-shell suitcase, giving Abby just enough wiggle room to yank the zipper closed.
“Duly noted.” In truth, Abby expected nothing less. As a professional product reviewer, Nadia shared her opinions as effortlessly as offering someone a stick of gum. But her blunt nature was offset by her big heart. Last year, she’d gathered Abby into her arms—and her stylish apartment—the moment she’d learned about Donnie’s accident. The moment Abby became a widow while the rest of the world overindulged on Thanksgiving turkey and pumpkin pie.
Nadia’s boyfriend was also one of the rigorously trained test pilots on base, and while both women knew the risks, Abby never expected to lose her husband of only two years in the same amount of time it took someone to order a peppermint latte.
Death, though always cruel, had been particularly heartless that day.
Abby dragged the suitcase to the door where the rest of her belongings waited. Then she turned, surveying the room she’d inhabited for the past year but had never truly made her own.
A comforting ache coiled around her heart, stealing her breath as it cinched tighter. The ever-present pain had arrived the day Donnie died, like a distant family member who’d come to pay their respects but never left. Over time, she’d gotten used to it, both anxious and afraid for the day it finally faded.
If it ever faded.
She reached for her throat, her fingers finding the cool metal chain perpetually draped around her neck. It served as a memento—a poignant reminder—she’d never remove.
“You’re really going to do this?” All the disapproval had evaporated from Nadia’s voice, unveiling her sadness.
“I have to, Nadia.” Whenever she thought about spending another Christmas without Donnie, panic flooded her veins, fueling her impulse to flee like a primal survival instinct she couldn’t ignore.
Daily life without Donnie was unbearable, but the holidays? She couldn’t handle the haunting memories attacking her at every turn.
No one loved Christmas more than Donnie Preston. He’d made Clark Griswold from National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation look like the Grinch. Not only had he insisted they attend every festivity within a fifty-mile radius, he’d created their own traditions, from snowman-shaped cinnamon rolls on Sunday morning to special notes tucked inside handmade keepsake ornaments.
Which only made losing him during the so-called Most Wonderful Time of the Year all the more painful.
Nope. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t hang around waiting for her heart to crumble like the walls of a stale gingerbread house, forgotten long after the festivities had ended.
Hiding in Blessings Bay until the new year was her only option.
The single-stop-sign town on the Northern California coast would be the perfect escape. After all, how Christmassy could the coast be? Sandcastles instead of snowflakes? Crab cakes instead of Christmas cookies? The decidedly unfestive locale was exactly what she needed.
Plus, the fully-furnished home Donnie’s aunt left him in her will would afford her some much-needed privacy and seclusion. The only downside? She’d finally have to face the ugly reality that he’d kept the home a secret from her their entire marriage—an unpleasant truth she’d long been avoiding.
“Abby,” Nadia said softly, sympathy shimmering in her dark eyes. “I understand why you want to get away. Honestly, I do. But you don’t even know if the house is vacant. It’ll take several hours to drive there, and leaving this late, you’ll probably arrive in the middle of the night. What if it’s occupied?”
“I’ve looked into it. Donnie hasn’t received any rent money since his aunt passed. As far as I can tell, he hasn’t done a single thing with the property except pay taxes.”
Which also meant he probably hadn’t sold off the furniture or other possessions, either.
“What about electricity and water?”
“I’ll figure it out when I get there. It can’t be too complicated.” Abby slipped on her coat, avoiding the obvious—her impromptu trip lacked planning. But Nadia didn’t understand what it felt like to wake up on December 1 faced with the incessant hope and cheer of the holidays, without the man she loved, the man whose death had robbed her of every ounce of joy she once possessed.
She’d worry about the details later. For now, she needed a haven where she could be alone with her heartache without well-meaning friends trying to make her feel better, as if such a thing were even possible.
Besides, she wasn’t being completely irresponsible. She could ghostwrite cookbooks for D-list celebrities and quirky entrepreneurs from anywhere in the world. She’d just turned in the final draft of Cooking with Cocker Spaniels: Dietary Deliciousness for You and Your Dog and didn’t expect edits until the new year.
A mixture of concern and something deeper flickered across Nadia’s flawless features. “I still wish you’d wait until after the holidays so I could come with you.”
Abby swallowed, her throat suddenly as dry as the desert air outside, as though an unspoken question had passed between them.
What if the house wasn’t the only thing Donnie hid from her?
“I would, but that would defeat the purpose. Besides, I’ll be fine.” Her words carried a confidence that belied the telltale tension in her shoulders. “I really need to get on the road before it gets too late.” She strode toward the bed and knelt on the floor, retrieving a small package wrapped in gold paper—the only festive leniency she’d allowed herself. She handed it to Nadia. “Don’t open it until Christmas, okay?”
Tearfully, Nadia drew Abby into a hug that felt painfully close to a permanent goodbye.
And for the first time since packing her bags, a tiny pang of doubt pierced her heart.
Was she making a big mistake?
Logan Mathews grabbed the plastic elf by the throat and yanked the goofy-looking lawn ornament from the soggy soil.
Fat raindrops pelted his face, blurring his vision and sliding, uninvited, down the collar of his jacket.
One elf rescued, only a thousand more to go.
He should let the unsightly horde of Santa’s helpers fend for themselves, considering he loathed the eyesores. In all the years he’d lived across the street from Verna Hoffstetter, she never failed to litter her lawn with the ugly little devils every December, like the holiday version of plastic pink flamingos.
The next elf he came across lay prostrate in the mud, upended by the turbulent wind that seemed personally ticked off by Verna’s tacky Christmas decorations.
Blinking against the curtain of rain that careened down his forehead, trying to drown him where he stood, Logan tucked the tiny toy maker beneath his arm with his fallen comrade.
Why exactly had he left the comfort of his home in the middle of a torrential downpour on some misguided rescue mission?
Heck if he knew.
He supposed he wanted to avoid seeing the crushed look on Verna’s face when she emerged the following morning to find an elfin massacre on her front lawn.
Okay, so she wasn’t his favorite person, always intruding on his solitude with invitations to play backgammon or to borrow some sugar—and one oddly specific request for a whole pineapple. But in some ways, she reminded Logan of his grandmother, and watching her lawn display be decimated by daggers disguised as raindrops seemed unnecessarily callous, even for him.
Although a self-proclaimed recluse, he was a decent enough neighbor. Unlike some clichéd curmudgeons like Mr. Wilson from Dennis the Menace, he’d found a healthy balance between privacy and common courtesy.
The wind came at him sideways, knocking him to his knees in disagreement.
His palms sank into the sludge, his nose pressed against the cheek of an elf with a painted-on smile that appeared to be mocking him.
Ha-ha. Very funny, wind.
Okay, so maybe he wasn’t well-balanced. On the teeter-totter of life, he’d sunk his heels pretty deep into seclusion and self-pity.
But it suited him.
Plus, it seemed reasonable considering the crummy discount-store playing cards he’d been dealt for thirty-five years.
First, losing his parents at an age when transitioning to the second grade should’ve been the most traumatic event in his childhood. Then, when he’d finally built a decent life for himself as a fighter pilot in the Air Force, a neck injury ripped everything away, including what little dignity and self-worth he had left.
It wasn’t bad enough that he’d had to move to a dinky backwater town like Blessings Bay, which was basically the coastal version of Mayberry. He’d had to rely on a friend’s generosity to make ends meet, the equivalent of rubbing salt and lemon juice in a gaping wound.
Sure, some people rose above the hard knocks and toured the country giving perky TED Talks on overcoming adversity.
Frankly, he found those people more irritating than inspirational.
He’d gone the other direction, embracing the title of town hermit—a respectable role in the ecosystem.
After all, it took all kinds of people to make the world go round.
And he was perfectly content with his choice.